


In the Calm after the Storm

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's anything Chandler has learned in those last few weeks, it's that sometimes it pays off to take a leap. (Coda to 1x03.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Calm after the Storm

When all the reports are written, when the doctors at the hospital have assured them that Miles will be fine, when he has seen the first headlines in the papers and said goodbye to his career with surprisingly little regret, when he has tidied up his desk and shut out the lights in his office, Joe finds Kent sitting at his desk outside, head bowed over some thick volume. It doesn't take a detective to figure out that it's one of the Ripper books Joe handed to the team, what feels like a lifetime ago. 

He didn't know anyone else was still here. Kent seems equally startled for a moment, looking up from his reading as Joe approaches him.

"I think you should call it a night. It's getting late." Not really: it's barely past nine. But then, they've been awake for close to forty hours now, and it's hardly been a restful forty hours, either. Everyone else has gone, home to their families, or to have a drink or ten in some pub, or to sit at Miles' bedside and make crude jokes. They all deserve their rest, one way or the other.

Kent doesn't look like he intends to rest anytime soon, though, his gaze flickering skittish from the book to the blackboard where the victims' pictures still haven't been taken down.

"Do you think we could have done more? Found him sooner, prevented some of the murders? Saved some of those girls?"

"Kent," Joe interrupts, wearily, because he doesn't want to have this conversation. He's had it in his mind a few of times too many already. 

The younger man goes on as if he hasn't heard him. "I mean, it's all there. It was all there _the whole time_. We just didn't see it."

"Kent." More firmly this time, and Kent stops and looks at him with tired, bloodshot eyes. It's the kind of trusting, hopeful look that makes Joe want to lie and tell him it'll be all right. But that would be just a glib turn of phrase, transparently untrue, so he opts for a little more honesty. "Let it go. It's over. We did our best, no matter what the papers say. And we did save a life, in the end, so it wasn't all for nothing." 

Doesn't mean he doesn't wonder himself; doesn't ask himself if he did the right thing, not rushing after the guy right away, lingering to check on Miles and Francis. He did let the Ripper escape. The papers got that part right. 

Joe reaches out, switching off the reading light on Kent's desk and firmly shutting the book. Kent doesn't protest. He looks tired and haunted, even more so now in the almost-darkness than he did in the harsh artificial light of the lamp. 

"Come on, I'll give you a lift home."

"You don't have to, sir. I can catch a bus later," Kent protests, but he doesn't sound thrilled by the idea of contending with public transport tonight, and he looks as if he's just about to fall over.

Joe thinks about what Miles said, about Kent hiding out in the car park to have a cry, and he says, "It's not a problem. You're on my way anyway," even though he has no idea where Kent actually lives and he's pretty sure that, wherever it is, it's probably not on his way.

Kent seems too tired to see through the flaw in his logic, or maybe he doesn't care. He just flashes Joe a grateful little smile that doesn't reach his eyes, grabs his jacket and then they're off. Thank God for GPS, because it gives Joe the chance to tell Kent to type in his address without making an ass of himself by having to admit that, despite what he said, he doesn't have a clue where exactly they're headed.

In the car, Kent is silent, slumped in the passenger seat and staring gloomily ahead as if he can conjure up the Ripper to appear in front of them by sheer power of will. It's altogether too easy to know what's going on in his head, and Joe wishes he had some words of comfort for him. There was no chapter in the manual of how to pick up the pieces after a case went pear-shaped, though; they just assumed that you got the guy, put him behind bars and forgot about the case as soon as the report was typed up. It has little to do with the reality of it all, and Joe is only just realizing that.

"I'm sorry they're making you a scapegoat," Kent says suddenly, surprising Joe by breaking the silence. "The press, I mean." 

It won't be just the press, Joe thinks, with a clear idea in mind how his appointment with Anderson tomorrow will go. Anderson will be apologetic but firm, telling Joe he should have known better than to let himself get so involved, and he'll tell him that Joe's on his own now. There will be nothing awkward about the conversation; it will be quick and perfunctory, like a plaster being ripped off.

As he's musing about career opportunities being laid to rest, beside him Kent is still talking, awkwardly pressing on. "You don't deserve that. You did good. I reckon even the DS likes you a bit now."

He can't quite suppress a chuckle at that. "I didn't catch the Ripper, but at least Miles doesn't hate me anymore. I suppose I should consider it a fair trade, then." He thinks the joke falls flat, but Kent grins anyway, and some of the tension seems to lift from his shoulders.

"What's happening now? For you, I mean. Moving on to bigger and better things?" Kent asks. There's no bitterness or malice in his tone, though, just genuine curiosity.

Joe shrugs and keeps his eyes on the road, watching the reflection of the headlights flickering on the wet pavement. "Hardly. They don't promote people who publicly mess up cases."

"You staying with us, then?" Kent, at least, doesn't sound unhappy about the idea.

"It's not really my choice. But it's a possibility."

He has, in fact, tried to avoid thinking about this. He's always liked the idea that his future was more or less set in stone, that he was just going through the motions, one step at the time, and he had it all planned out. Now, for the first time, it's all up in the air, and he has no idea where this path will lead him. It's like he's suddenly taken a left turn and has gone off the map, stepping into uncharted territory. It's in equal amounts unsettling and frightening and exhilarating.

"Wouldn't be a bad thing, though, would it?" Kent asks, in what he probably means to be an off-hand manner. There's nothing casual about the question, though, or the way he's anxiously looking at Joe, waiting for an answer.

The thing is, a month ago, Joe would have disagreed fiercely. Now, though...

"No, I guess it wouldn't," he says, and means it. He doesn't look at Kent, but out of the corner of his eye, he catches his smile.

There's no more talk for the rest of the ride. It's a comfortable silence, only interrupted by the occasional order from the well-modulated voice of the GPS telling Joe when to take a turn.

It announces that they've reached their destination when Joe steers the car into a narrow side road in Shepherd's Bush. "The third one on the left," Kent tells him, and Joe parks out front, halfway up on the pavement.

He expects a brief thank you and goodnight, if he's lucky. If not, another rehash of the case, and he's _really_ not in the mood for that. 

Kent doesn't say anything, though, and neither does he make a move to get out. The silence is different from before, weirdly awkward and charged and expectant, and when Joe turns to look at Kent, he doesn't quite meet his eye.

The rain drums softly, steadily, against the windscreen and the wipers' screeching noises are uncomfortably loud in the silence, grating on Joe's nerves like the sound of chalk on a blackboard. He switches them off and watches the rain washing down the glass, blurring the view.

He's still trying to come up with something to say that doesn't sound like a rude dismissal or an invitation to talk the case over when Kent finally speaks up.

"So, you wanna come up for a cup of tea?" he asks, something oddly cautious in his voice, and – _oh_! 

Suddenly all the furtive little smiles and the kid's eagerness to follow him and hang on to his every word make more sense. He can't believe he didn't notice it sooner. What kind of a detective does that make him, if he doesn't even notice when his co-worker has a crush on him? It's no wonder he couldn't catch the killer if something as obvious as this passed him by.

Then again, maybe the offer for a tea is just that, and he's seeing things that aren't there, chasing phantoms ( _again_ ). Maybe Kent only wants company after a case gone wrong; wouldn't be the first time. Maybe tea and sympathy is all this is about.

Or maybe not. Maybe Kent mistook his offer to drive him home for an overture – and Jesus, wouldn't that just be the highlight of this shitty month, if on top of an unsolved case, he also got a harassment suit for his troubles? 

He knows he's being hysterical, his sleep-deprived mind is rapidly firing irrational ideas at him and he's panicking – but the knowledge that he's overreacting isn't really helping him stop doing it. His breath is going too fast and the air in the car seems stuffy, and when he reaches up to loosen his tie, he only belatedly remembers that he's not even wearing it anymore.

Running a weary hand over his face, he forces himself to calm down. His voice, when he finally answers Kent, is remarkably steady, and he can feel the wave of panic ebbing away.

"I don't think so. I should probably get some sleep."

It's true, too. Even if he wanted to join Kent for a tea or whatever else he might be offering, even if he was seriously considering the suggestion, he's been awake for entirely too long now, and tomorrow will probably be a tough day.

Kent nods and Joe thinks he can see a flash of disappointment on his face. But perhaps he's just imagining it; perhaps it's only the harsh shadows from the street light playing tricks on him. 

"I’ll see you tomorrow then," Kent says. "Good night, sir."

"Good night. Try to get some sleep." 

When Kent is already out of the car, he leans back down and looks through the open passenger door. "You sure about that tea? The offer still stands, you know, if you want to change your mind."

Kent fixes him with an imploring look, his dark eyes almost black in the shadows, and he holds Joe's gaze a little too long for the offer to still be casual.

Joe wants to turn away and dismiss him, but the longer he looks at Kent, the more he finds his resolve wavering. Kent must be realizing that too, because he doesn't seem inclined to close the door and walk to his house.

The rain flattens his hair and a single drop runs down his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. Joe feels the absurd urge to reach out and brush it away. He clenches his hand on the steering wheel to keep himself from doing anything stupid.

This is, in all likelihood, a bad idea. You don't shit on your own doorstep and all that. And no matter what Miles had said the other night, even if the men didn't give a shit about whether Joe was gay or not, he was fairly sure that they would start having an opinion if he got involved with one of their own. 

Really, this had 'bad idea' written all over it, in flashing red capital letters. But, in the history of bad ideas, it would hardly be a personal record, not even when he was only counting the last month. Of course, he only _needed_ to count the last month, because before that, he'd always opted for the safe choice. Maybe he should have stuck with that. He'd still have a bright future ahead of himself, then. And Francis Cole would be dead, the Ripper would be rejoicing his triumph, and Joe wouldn't be propositioned by some tousled-haired, dark-eyed colleague ten years his junior, who for some reason seems to harbour a somewhat misplaced case of hero-worship for him.

All things considered, not taking the safe choice hadn't worked out too badly so far.

"All right," Joe hears himself saying without remembering to have made a conscious decision. 

The answering smile on Kent's face is quick but genuine. It's as if he instantly looks a little less tired and troubled, and Joe can't help but smile in return. It feels foreign and unfamiliar, smiling, after weeks of walking around with an expression permanently wavering between frustrated and angry, but when he catches his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he realizes that he hasn't forgotten how to do it.

"Come on then," Kent says, fortunately foregoing the 'sir'. "Before you change your mind again."

"I won't," Joe promises. He gets out of the car and follows Kent inside.

End.


End file.
